


Bedtime Stories and Templar Tales

by irishgirlE



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Exhaustion, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Inner Dialogue, Literal Sleeping Together, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Mentions of Sexual Activities, Nightmares, Pre-Slash, Templars, rambling inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-29 14:05:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishgirlE/pseuds/irishgirlE
Summary: An Insomniac Commander's night is made better by a Night-Owl Mage deciding to read him a bedtime story.





	Bedtime Stories and Templar Tales

Cullen lowered his head to his desk with a groan that timed perfectly with the thump that sounded when his skull connected with the wood. He was tempted to repeat the action, but he knew that that would be a step closer to hurting himself than he wanted to take.

The nightmares and the withdrawal were enough penance for the moment, he decided. If the world decided that it wanted more pain from him, it would have to wait until the Breach was closed. Because he just didn’t have enough time to suffer any more at the moment.

His incredibly loyal – and increasingly appreciated – Captains and Lieutenants had begun to stealthily steal his reports and his administrative work. He appreciated the attempt enough to not remark on their lack of stealth. He had grown up among soldiers. Bored, young soldiers whose only amusement came from what they could make themselves. Cullen had woken up with plenty of frogs in his bed, slime in his shoes, and sleeves stolen from his shirts. He knew when his things had been riffled through, and when there was still someone hiding in his rooms.

There was no one in his office now. If there was, he might just ask them to knock him out.

Despite his subordinates valiant efforts to alleviate his stress, his current state was not due to being overwrought with work, not that that had been fun, but it was due to his complete lack of sleep.

Other than scant snatches of sleep when he first fell into bed and was too exhausted to dream, his sleeping moments were filled with horrific images of his waking past. Kinloch Hold. Kirkwall. Meredith. The Chantry Explosion.

He dreamed of things that he had never seen; like his parents’ deaths, his friends at Kinloch Hold dying, his former Knight Captains and Knight Commanders losing their sanity. The things he had seen were bad enough, he didn’t need to make up nightmares. But he had spent enough time under the thumbs – and every other clawing finger – of various demons, nightmare demons included, to be able to effortlessly invent his own terrors. They weren’t even needed by the end.

When he was awake, his days weren’t any more peaceful. This withdrawal was taking more from him than he had expected to have to give, not that he wasn’t prepared to give it.

His muscles ached, his bones creaked, he moved like an old man, not at all like the young man he sometimes forgot that he still was. His head pounded in time with his heart, which beat more and more laboriously each day. Occasionally, he worried that it would give out, but he trusted that it would continue to carry him through his struggle. If he had survived Kinloch Hold, Kirkwall, Templar training, losing everything – every time – he was certain that it would hold out long enough to ensure that not a drop of Lyrium survived in his bloodstream.

Cullen sighed where he rested his head. Occasionally he found his mouth watering for the familiar taste of Lyrium, but his brain knew that it tasted horrible. It tasted like glass, an older Templar had once confided in him. Cullen had been too nervous to ask him how he knew what glass tasted like.

He knew the sharp, bitterness of its taste, he knew the cold, thickness of the smell, he knew the bright glow of the sight, and he knew the horrible damage that it wrought. He had watched men and women that he had grown with, respected, sometimes even loved, waste away until nothing of themselves remained. The Chantry plied them with just enough Lyrium to survive, when, in Cullen’s opinion, a knife would have been kinder.

He shook himself. “I’m still alive,” he murmured to himself. He survived it. He would survive. He would inspire other Templars to cut their leashes. He would prove that it could be done. And then he would have done his final duty to the Maker. He had given everything that he had once loved in the name of Andraste, this was it.

He was living for himself now, and he would not give any of that to the Maker, only to the cause, to the Inquisition. He had given up his right to his family’s land. He had given up countless friends to distant positions and postings, and death. He had given up Daylen and Alim and Neria and Lily to the demons of Kinloch, even if that hadn’t been willing in any sense of the word. He had given up any chance of a life with Solona when he had turned away from her, and yelled at her later, and not braving through and taking the chance to apologise when he could. He had given up enough.

Cullen sighed again. He had survived plenty, especially when better people had fallen. He only had this one more thing to survive before he could live a life worth his friends’ deaths.

“I saw the light on, isn’t it a bit late for you, Commander…?”

Cullen almost smiled as he heard the accented voice dance through his office, faltering on his title as the Tevinter mage doubtlessly saw the Commander of the forces of the Inquisition with his head on his desk.

Cullen crossed his arms on the desk and rested his head on his arms, pillowing them and offering him an alternative to holding up his own head. “Dorian,” he greeted, tiredly, moving his jaw as little as possible.

Dorian nodded in response and entered the office, closing the door behind him and blocking out the chill that chased him inside. “Commander, might I ask what you’re doing?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at Cullen’s posture.

Cullen imagined that his mother would have agreed with Dorian. She would have like the Tevinter Mage, he was sure. It was a shame that they would never meet.

Mia, he was sure, would act as though she didn’t like Dorian for a short while, while she sniffed out his worth and suitability. But Cullen knew that Dorian would not be found wanting by the Rutherford family’s current matriarch and Dorian would be welcomed into the family with open arms.

“Cullen?” Dorian said, sounding as though he had been repeating himself for some time.

Cullen shook himself, annoyed that he had gotten so distracted. It was just that he was so tired, and Dorian was just so calming. Calming and infuriating, in equal, irritating measure. Just like Solona had been.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I seem to have drifted off for a moment. What did you say?”

“I asked what you were doing,” Dorian said. “But I doubt that even you know that answer.”

Cullen cast a bleary gaze at the piles of paper on his desk. “You’re right.”

“Is there a reason that you haven’t retired to your… _loft,_ Commander?” Dorian wondered, spitting the word ‘loft’ with such distain that Cullen couldn’t stop a grin from forming on his face.

He shook his head. “Can’t fall asleep,” he said, simply, with a shrug.

Dorian gave him a careful once over, perhaps testing the truth of that statement, or, more likely, seeing the understatement of Cullen’s claim. “I would have thought that your reports would surely have put you to sleep by now. In fact,” Dorian pulled a book from… somewhere. Maker only knew what pockets that sorry excuse for a shirt held, not that Cullen was complaining. Dorian waved the book. “I’ve come with something more substantial to entertain you,” he claimed.

Cullen doubted it. The one benefit of a Circle Tower was its library, and Cullen had become more than adapt at recognising a history tomb when he saw one. Or, more commonly in the Circle, when a more raunchy tomb was masquerading as a history tomb. He knew of countless occasions when he had helped a few of the friendlier mages smuggle those particular books to their room, or to a local storage cupboard where they were read aloud to mages and younger templars, usually while Cullen ostensibly guarded the door and listened through the crack. Tragically though, Dorian’s tomb was one he recognised as a particularly dry account of early Fereldan history.

“I can tell,” Cullen said, doubtfully.

Dorian smirked. “Oh come, Commander, I would have thought that you would love nothing more than learning about dusty old battles led by equally dusty commanders.”

“I should hope that you’re not referring to me, Dorian,” Cullen replied, grinning. He was too tired to pretend not to enjoy Dorian’s flirting. It was different to what he was used to. Relationships were uncommon in the Order, while brief sexual encounters were not. But those usually just involved a very plain look, or an unmistakable touch, or being pressed up against a hard surface with an order to meet in the nearest storage closest at a certain time.

He didn’t know where all those rumours about virginal Chantry boys came from, he doubted that half of the people spreading those rumours had done it standing up in a mop cupboard while gagging yourself with a cloth and trying not to be noticed by your Knight-Captain while he stood right outside. Although, the Iron Bull had doubtlessly done something far stranger.

“Of course not, Commander,” Dorian teased. “I’m sure that you’re far more interesting than that dusty fur mantle would have me believe.”

Cullen raised a hand to his mantle just to check that there was no dust. He took care of his clothes, just not very well. “I’ll have you know that I killed this myself,” he claimed.

“Really?” Dorian looked mildly repulsed.

“Actually, no,” Cullen admitted. He had killed an identical creature, and then he sent it to one of his older templar friends. She had sent this one back. An old Honnleath tradition, it marked the rebirth of an old, dying friendship. He wore it in memory of her and all his old friends in an unspoken vow to one day return to them all and visit again, once the Breach was closed and Coryphaeus was defeated. And if he had made that vow days after meeting Dorian, well then that was his business. No one but him needed to know that he had sent it out as a final peace-offering, not wishing to die at odds with his oldest friend.

Dorian hummed doubtfully, shooting the pelt the occasional suspicious glance now, even as he approached. “Well, would you like to listen to me regale you with all the tales of ‘the glorious battles of Fereldan past’?” He read.

There was very little Cullen would hate more than to listen to those old histories again, but, he supposed, anything would sound good in Dorian’s accented voice. “I’d offer you a seat,” he said, regretfully, but he let the report covered furniture finish for him.

“You’re such a poor host, Commander,” Dorian sighed. “I should hope that your loft is better suited for guests,” he hinted.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Say, Dorian, would you fancy coming up to my loft to read to me?” he offered, somewhat sarcastically.

Dorian ignored it and he smirked at the slouched Commander. “Come then, lead the way.”

Cullen dragged himself to his feet with a muted groan. He didn’t have any better furniture up there either, but he could lie down on his bed with the mage, he doubted Dorian would mind getting that chance. Although he would probably be disappointed if they kept their clothes on the entire time, not nearly as disappointed as he would be if Cullen fell asleep mid-way though.

He clambered up his ladder, grateful that he had already stripped off his armour earlier and stumbled to his bed with a sigh. Dorian followed after, looking uncharacteristically uncertain now that he was here. Cullen shifted on his bed so that there was ample space and he patted the empty area beside him. “C’mon,” he invited. “It’s comfier than the floor.” He knew that for certain.

“Inviting me into your bed, Commander?” Dorian gasped in false shock. “But whatever would the Chantry Mother say?”

Cullen shifted on the bed, rolling his stiff muscles and forcing tenser ones to relax. “The Chantry sisters have far more interesting things to gossip about me than anyone I might have in my bed. And they have far more interesting things to gossip about in general,” he groused.

There was something ever so slightly guilty in Dorian’s body as he moved to the bed and lay down beside him. Cullen guessed that he had heard the rumours about his nightmares. Considering his night owl tendencies, Cullen imagined that the mage had heard them too.

“The worst demons do not lurk in the Fade,” Dorian agreed, shooting a refreshingly empathetic glance Cullen’s way.

He appreciated it. He had heard his fair share of rumours about Dorian, specifically involving his father and blood-magic. Whether or not it was true, he knew that Dorian had faced his own demons that led to him running to a ‘land of barbarians’ as he called it, although with increasing fondness.

Cullen released all the excess tension that he carried out in a deep sigh, relaxing into his bed. It wasn’t exactly soft, but Cullen had spent too much of his life sleeping in barrack beds to ever be comfortable on soft sheets. Dorian remained sitting upright, leaning against the wall, so that he could look down at the book in his lap, and at Cullen, who curled up next to Dorian’s legs.

They called him a lion, but Cullen felt that he was closer to a cat than a lion, closer to a dog than a cat too, but nicknames were rarely grounded in sense. They called King Alistair ‘beetroot’ after he snuck into the Templar mess hall in the nude, not because he went beetroot, but rather because the Knight-Commander did.

Cullen hummed when Dorian curled a hand into Cullen’s curls, his pomade having long since been rubbed out over the day, revealing the unruly curls that Cullen had done his best to hack back during his time in the Order. He had hated them growing up, hated the teasing and the tugging that came from having them, but a few well placed comments from the ladies of the Inquisition and a whisper that Cullen was sure came from the Inquisitor to Dorian had certainly gone towards making him a little less self-conscious about them.

“Alright Commander, where should we start?” Dorian wondered aloud, pretending to peruse the tomb, and not be shooting Cullen glances that looked almost fond.

Cullen shrugged, shuffling even closer to Dorian. “Wherever,” he sighed, as those fingers rubbed against his scalp, finding and soothing the knots of tension that aided the withdrawal in causing his headaches. Mage or not, Dorian certainly had magic fingers. And Cullen knew that he was exhausted when not even that thought caused any interest to spring within.

“Don’t go falling asleep on me, Commander,” Dorian chided lightly. “It wouldn’t do to have me traipsing out of your room in the middle of the night. Think of what your soldiers would say,” he added, with just a touch of bitterness.

“I reckon they’d approve,” Cullen mumbled. He had a small but growing collection of Tevinter love stories stashed somewhere in his room from his soldiers’ well-meaning but bizarre attempts to get him and Dorian together. Not that they hadn’t been helpful. Not that he had read them. “You’re welcome to stay,” he added. “If you don’t mind the nightmares. Or the hole in the ceiling.”

Dorian shot said hole a disapproving glare. “I suppose there are greater advantages to staying in this bed.”

Cullen grinned. “So, what are you going to read?”

Dorian made a show of sighing and flicking through the book. “I suppose I should find a good chapter. Considering your lack of culture, I doubt you’d enjoy the chapter on Lady Stoneton’s crockery.”

Cullen shuddered at the memory. He had, in fact, read that chapter. Naughty initiates were forced to memorise it until they could recite it line for line.

Dorian smoothed a hand over a page as he found a chapter that he deemed ‘suitable’ and then he began to read. Cullen pressed his head further into Dorian’s hand and closed his eyes with a pleased hum. This was dangerously close to cuddling which, he supposed, was why he enjoyed it so much. He had always liked danger.

Cullen feel asleep easily that night, and, for once, he didn’t dream of demons of dead friends, he dreamt of long passed battles, interspersed with sarcastic comments, and a very warm mage, who was still there when Cullen awoke the next morning.

 


End file.
